Eventually
by MorbidMandy
Summary: It was never supposed to be like this. They were supposed to raise their family together, grow old, all those things people always claim not to want until they do . But nothing ever works out like you plan, and sometimes things go the opposite. ANGST, SUPER ANGST, Character Deaths. Angst. Mentioned Klaine and Finchel. Angst. Oh and also btw ANGST.


**Um. ANGST WARNING - like seriously. If you do not like Angst, do not read this. This was written to try and get me back in the rhythm of writing, and also because occasionally I want to write ANGSTY ANGST, and most of it never sees the light of day but this is apparently. I make no claims for good writing or storytelling or character development.**

**This is a oneshot, but I might write a sequel later? If I do, it will be a completely separate story. Also please review.  
**

**Warnings: ANGST, Character death(S)  
**

It wasn't that Kurt wasn't used to sadness. He was. From a young age too, watching his mother wither away as the cancer slowly destroyed the once vibrant woman. But he had never quite imagined this.

A flash of red lights. The strangled screech of a siren. The sound of feet running. Kurt squeezed his eyes shut against the onset of sense-bombardment. Could it truly be, that only an hour ago Kurt was sitting in his office, grinning as the last of the models strutted around in his newest line. He had a show coming up, and so he hadn't thought much of staying late. He'd get home around 10, kiss Blaine, eat dinner, make sure Alex (named Alexander after Blaine's grandfather but mostly after Alexander McQueen) and the twins (Katy, after Kurt's mother, and Addie, after Blaine's) were asleep, and then drift off for 6 hours of blissful sleep before he would get up and start it all over again.

And now... and now Kurt was sitting here. In some hallway of some emergency room, running anxious fingers over his clothing. A negligible worry, but one that grounded him. Long ago, his sixteen year old self dealt with a father in the hospital by triple-pressing all of his shirts and painstakingly organizing his vests. Now, a twenty-five year old Kurt dealt with this in a smaller, but still silly, way.

"Mr. Hummel?" there was a doctor in front of him, now, and Kurt had the strangest desire that he'd changed his name to Blaine's. They'd both thought it silly, and were considering later hyphenating for the kids, but it hadn't seemed... important.

"Yes?" Kurt's voice was scratchy, rough, and oh lord if his teenage self could see him now he would be swatting at him, hissing about Broadway and vocal training. No, his dreams of Broadway had died at the age of nineteen, when he fell from the stage of his first off-Broadway show, cracking his femur and giving him a perpetual limp and occasional ache.

"I'm afraid... we did all we could." The doctor looked apologetic, more than that, Kurt thought he saw tears in the mans eyes.

"Which... who?" Kurt forced the words out, pushing the deadly feelings of depression aside. The words came out in a gasp, and Kurt sent a silent prayer out that the doctor would speak quickly, because his hands were already trembling, his vision blurring, and he wasn't sure how much more of this he could take.

"All of them. One male, and one female."

Kurt squeezed his eyes shut. All of them. Blaine, his wonderful Blaine, the love of his life, his husband, the father to his children. The crux on which his entire life rotated. Gone. Never again would Kurt come home to Blaine holding a plate of his favorite creme puffs. Never again would the children pile in their bed on Sunday mornings to eat french toast and watch old movies. No more Blaine.

And Rachel. Rachel Berry, his best friend, the gorgeous and talented Broadway star. The mother of his and Blaine's children. That had been quite an event. When Rachel had first offered, both him and Blaine had been wary. Rachel and Finn had just ended a three-year relationship, and they feared her intentions may have been more romance-motivated than friendship. But Rachel had talked them into it, and everyone agreed it was the best decision they had ever made. Blaine and Kurt hadn't wanted to know _which_ of them was the father, but it was obvious as soon as Alex began getting hair. It was as thick, dark, and curly as his Daddy's. The same way that it was obvious Katy was Kurt's - her hair a golden brown and wavy, and Addie was Rachel's - they were practically twins, with Addie inheriting Rachel's thick straight hair and loud voice. Although, while Addie still put her voice to use mostly by crying, Rachel had done much more with it.

The world would mourn for her, no doubt. Movies would be made - the young ingenue, only weeks after she swept the Tony's. God, that had been a sight - a seven month pregnant Rachel Berry, clad in one of Kurt's creations, looking like the Madonna as she swept onto the stage in white and gold, accepting a grand total of 8 Tony awards. Gone. No more Saturday sing-alongs with the kids. No more well-intentioned but ultimately bad help(Rachel had never quite grown out of that character trait).

And...

"The baby?"

The doctor flipped through his chart, "The child was delivered twenty-five minutes ago-"

"Why didn't anyone tell me? Where are they? What's happening?"

"He's still in the NICU - he's two weeks premature, and there was a lot of trauma in the accident. They're still working on him... it's too early to say for sure, but -"

"Take me to him. Take me to my son." Kurt was crying now, freely, tears flowing and shoulders heaving, but - his son. Could it have only been last night that Blaine was flicking paint at him and teasing him about names. They had decided to abandon the familial route this time, having given Burtram as a middle name for Alex, and to simply go with a name they liked. They'd been waffling between Benjamin (Blaine's choice) or Patrick (Kurt's).

Kurt was led blindly through the maze of halls, through doors that opened in front of them, through doors that he had to shove himself into to push them over. Kurt's hands fluttered over the bulge made by his phone in his pocket. He should call his father. Finn (who had been dancing around with Rachel for years now, pretending that they didn't love each other but only falling deeper), anyone who could take their boys and pretend that the world wasn't falling apart. He would. Later.

For now, he was being led into a tiny room, with bright lights and people whispering in hushed voices that he was okay for now, but he had to be kept in this box, in this tiny little plastic box, with tubes breathing for him. But Kurt could touch him, could reach his hand through the little holes on the sides and touch his son.

Kurt sank to his knees, reaching carefully through and stroking a finger over the soft skin. The baby - his baby, his son - turned slightly, reaching out with one arm. The doctors were talking more now, something about medications and maybe releasing him in three weeks.

But Kurt was gone. Because his son's eyes were open, looking at him. His son. Him and Blaine and Rachel's son, except he was the only one left. He would have to be 3 parents at once for his four children. But his son was looking at him, and in that moment, Kurt knew they would be alright. Not now, not for a while. But eventually.

**I'm sorry?**


End file.
